"A special train?" he asked. "I have no money."
"The auto," she replied quickly. "I will drive it. I've driven it hundreds of miles"——
"Betty," he expostulated, using her name unconsciously. "You cannot—maybe we can find a driver."
"I can and I will," she said decisively; "it is only 235 miles. We have eight hours. We can make it. The car is fast and easy to handle."
Still arguing, she led him back to the car, and they rode quickly back to the hotel over part of the route they had traversed during their wild flight. They breakfasted while the car was being prepared for the run, studying road maps while they ate.
"Betty, how can I ever thank you," he said, leaning forward over the table.
"By calling me Miss Tabor and winning the game to-day," she said, coolly, without looking up from the maps.
"The car is ready," the head waiter announced. "A good trip to you, Miss Tabor."
"You have a good driver, McCarthy," said the manager, who alone knew the object of the trip. "She handles that car better than I do. I have given her permission to tear it to pieces to get you through."
The start was undramatic. The car rolled easily along to the drive and presently was lifting and dropping over the hills of the splendid speedway. A gentle breeze from the river fanned them as they rushed through it.